


(nothing like i'm) loving you now

by champagneleftie



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Sports
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-03-30 08:41:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13947924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/champagneleftie/pseuds/champagneleftie
Summary: Isak and Even are friends.Good friends. Flatmates.And Even knows he can be... A lot. That he isn't as good a friend to Isak as Isak is to him.Heknows.But they're friends. Good friends.Just friends.Until suddenly, they're not.Or: five times Even and Isak go running, and one time they don't.*ON INDEFINITE HIATUS*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday Evakteket! Kit and Immy, you've really created something incredible, and I'm just so impressed by all the work you put into Evakteket, the quality of your recs, the positivity you bring to the Skam fandom, everything. I'm so happy to have the chance to celebrate you <3
> 
> My prompts for this was sports, miscommunication and 5+1. I've really used the broadest definition of sports, because I know absolutely nothing about any kind of professional sports, so this is more like... Exercising. Oops. 
> 
> To my scandi girls, Maugurt, and Smutfika - thank you all for being so patient with me, and my complaining. I literally could not have done this without you <3
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr!](https://champagneleftie.tumblr.com)

The grass beneath their feet is tall enough for the straws to reach over Even’s sneakers. They tickle his bare ankles, leaving dew trails on his skin. 

He hugs himself tighter, buries his hands in his armpits and draws his head further into the hood of his sweatshirt. Dips his chin under the neckline. In the chilly morning breeze, his cotton sweats might as well be made of netting.

The rest of the city is still asleep, worn out from its Friday night adventures. A lone dog walker pauses on the other side of the pathway, staring shamelessly at them as the dog goes about its business. Other than that, the park is deserted. 

Even wonders, yet again, how the fuck he ended up here. 

It’s a rhetorical question by now. He knows how. And why. 

Around him, runners mingle. From the way they’re chatting away with each other, greeting the volunteers, lighting up in recognition as more people arrive – it seems like only he and Isak are first timers. 

A familiar ache had settled behind his breastbone at the realization. 

He just doesn’t want this to be yet another thing he messes up. 

For Isak’s sake. He owes him that much. 

At least he’s not the only one who doesn’t look like a semi-pro. That had been his other fear, the one that almost kept him home today. Would have kept him home if Isak hadn’t more or less dragged him out of bed, way too early in the morning. 

There are two guys at the front of the group, wearing shorts in complete disregard of the chilly morning temperature, their shirts branded with some athletic club he doesn't recognize. They're doing some kind of complicated warm up, jumps and swings and intricate steps that makes it look like they're dancing. He tries to stop himself from rolling his eyes at them, but in the end, he doesn’t quite manage it. 

Other than that, everyone looks pretty normal. Even if no one else is wearing sweats. 

“You know, research shows that the risk of injury lessens dramatically if you warm up before exercising.” 

Isak’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts, as if he could tell that they were once again about to take another turn into Even’s insecurities. 

He grins up at him, bent low in some sort of side lunge stretch… thing. The shorts he’s wearing over his running tights ride up, straining against his thighs. Even through the shiny material of the tights, Even can see the outline of his burgeoning thigh muscles. 

The knot in Even’s chest dissolves slightly.

“Oh, so you’re some kind of running expert now?” he quips back, and Isak’s grin grows wider as he straightens, pushing his shorts back down, hands gliding down his thighs, his ass. He shakes out first his right leg, and then his left. 

“Yup. The running master.” 

Even grins back. Cocks an eyebrow at him. 

The usual mixture of guilt and gratitude makes its waves in his gut. 

Out of the two of them, Isak is definitely the running master. Even though the whole point of doing this, together, was that they’d both be equally shitty at it. 

He can’t start thinking of how he’ll never make it up to him. Can’t let himself. 

The group shifts around them as they line up to start. Tightens. Even’s shoulder knocks against Isak’s, and Isak turns to him again, raising his eyebrows in challenge.

“Winner gets to pick the movie.” 

He barely has time to laugh out a you’re on before a flag is waved, and they’re off. 

~*~

He starts out strong, latches onto the guys in shorts at the head of the pack and leaves Isak in his wake. The breeze that made him shiver when he was standing still is now crisp and cool against his face, his neck, whispering through his hair. He breathes in deeply, filling his lungs to the point of bursting. It feels like every pore in his body is funnelling oxygen straight into his bloodstream. His feet are light, easy, flying over the pathway like they were made for running. Like this is the natural state of being, and walking, or even standing still, is a modern abomination. 

He feels like a fucking gazelle. 

He could to this forever. 

~*~

He can not do this forever. 

Even is literally dying. 

It comes out of nowhere, from one second to the next. 

The air lodges in his throat, choking him, the bare minimum trickling down to his lungs. Every step is painful, the unyielding pavement sending shocks through his feet, up his legs, his thighs. His sweats are heavy, cold and soaked through. His hoodie is a heavy yoke on his shoulders and his pants are threatening to slide down his legs at any second. From his hair, plastered against his forehead, drips salty sweat, burning in the corners of his eyes. 

He’s going to die here. He’s sure of it. 

It’s the height of irony. 

He can picture the headlines: _Man, 23, dies while exercising, not having accomplished anything worthwhile in his entire life._

The distance between him and the guys in shorts grows with every step. A steady stream of runners pass him, as he fights to keep himself upright. 

The thought hits him that if he were to be pursued by a raging murderer right now, he’d be fucked. He couldn’t outrun a child. 

He’s just passed the halfway mark when Isak jogs past, giving him a wink and a jaunty salute, looking like this is the easiest thing he’s ever done. The only sign that he’s putting in any effort at all is the red tinge of his cheeks, the bright gleam in his eyes. 

As he pulls away, Even’s eyes fix on his calves, muscles pulsing with every step. 

~*~

The moment he crosses the finish line, Even stops. This is it. He’s done. He’s not taking another step – not in a long, long time. His throat is dry, his lungs have shrivelled up like raisins. Every cell in his legs is in pain. His stomach is cramping, and he thinks he might vomit. 

He leans over, puts his hands on his knees and tries to breathe.

In through the nose, out through the mouth. 

Isak’s voice reaches him, bright and enthusiastic, but his head is too heavy to lift and look for him. 

How weird would it be if he were to just lay down on the grass, right here, and took a nap? Just closed his eyes and drifted off. 

“Hang on,” he hears Isak say, ”I’ve just got to check on my friend,” and he manages to look up just enough that he can see Isak walking towards him, leaving behind one of the shorts guys looking slightly disappointed. 

Isak doesn’t seem to notice. 

He comes over to Even, and his hand on Even’s shoulder is warm and comforting. 

Even’s breath starts to even out. His pulse slows down, just a little. 

“You okay?” Isak asks, handing him the half full water bottle in his other hand. Judging from the concern in his voice, Even must look as bad as he feels. 

Even nods, swallowing down the last of his nausea with Isak’s water. 

“Yeah, I just need to… breathe,” he coughs, straightening. 

Isak rolls his eyes at him. 

His hand remains on Even’s shoulder, just for a moment longer. When he drops it to his side, the weight of it lingers. 

“Told you you should have warmed up.” 

Even gasps in response. 

“Excuse me?! I thought we were doing this for my sake?” 

Isak rolls his eyes again, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“Yeah, and if you die, it’ll all have been for nothing.” 

Behind them, someone clears their throat, politely. 

It’s one of the shorts guys – the one Isak was just talking to. He's holding a water bottle in his hands as well, pulling the stopper cork out and pushing it back in again, over and over. 

He smiles at Isak, ignoring Even completely. 

A few meters from them, Even can see his friend, watching with an obvious smile on his face. 

“Hey, so, we’re going over to that café now? Like I was telling you about? If you wanted to come?” 

“Uhm…” Isak shoots Even a look, and Even cocks an eyebrow at him. 

He wouldn’t blame Isak for going with the guy. He’s not Even’s type, but he’s hot, like, objectively speaking. And he can’t even remember the last time Isak hooked up with someone, so really, he’d be stupid not to go when this guy is obviously flirting with him. But they did have plans to watch movies for the rest of the day after this. It’s become their thing, lately. A run, and then collapsing on the couch for the rest of the day, moving only to get more snacks. Which is probably exactly what Even would do anyway, if Isak weren’t there, but it’s nice to have company. 

And they did have plans. 

(He could call Mikael or someone. But still, it wouldn’t be the same.)

“Uhm…” Isak says again, and runs his hand over the back of his neck. His hair is at its curliest right there, and now, it’s even curlier than usual, darkened slightly with sweat. “I… actually need to study. Yeah.” 

Shorts guy nods, slowly. 

“Okay. Sure. But maybe next time?” 

Isak grimaces in the same way that he always does when he’s trying, and not really succeeding, to fake a smile. 

“Sure. Definitely. Maybe.” 

A spark of smugness makes its way through Even, and he wonders if shorts guy can even tell that that’s a no. 

From his responding smile and the way his friend claps him on the back as they walk away he’d guess not. 

~*~

He’s reminded of shorts guy again later that afternoon. 

They’ve moved on from movies to a new Netflix show. It's hilariously bad, so bad that it's almost good, but they’re four episodes in by now and Even is starting to lose focus. Just a little. 

He's swiping his way through Tinder when Isak returns from the kitchen and places their third bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. 

“Find anyone interesting?” he asks, grabbing a fistful of popcorn and shoving it into his mouth. 

Even can only sigh in response. 

There's never anyone interesting. 

He'd gotten Tinder a few months after breaking up with Sonja – when he was sure they were broken up for good this time, and when he'd started to dream about meeting the love of his life again. 

When he'd finally stopped believing that she was it. 

So far, it's been a complete waste. 

Sure, he's gotten a couple of dates from it, but they've been few and far between, and none of them have really… clicked. It’s not that there’s been anything wrong with them, they’ve all been perfectly nice – except for that one girl – but so far, he hasn’t had a single date where he hasn’t spent the entire night thinking that he’d rather be home, in his sweats, just hanging out with Isak. 

Maybe he's being unreasonable. Naive, to think that he could possibly relive the kind of connection he had with Sonja – overwhelming and all-encompassing. The kind of connection where not a moment goes by when you don’t miss them, desperately. 

A kind of connection that probably doesn't happen after 15, except in the movies. 

He responds with a sigh, and a shrug, and a fistful of popcorn. 

Isak's eyebrows knot together, and Even feels his eyes linger on his face. 

“Don't worry,” he says, finally, his voice a little softer. “You'll find someone.” 

Even isn’t so sure about that. Isn’t so sure, anymore, that he won’t just end up alone, as all his friends pair up and move on with their lives. 

It’s another one of those paths he can’t allow his thoughts go down. 

He changes the subject instead. 

“What about you?” He raises his eyebrows at Isak, tries for a cheeky smile. “Like that guy at the run this morning? He seemed really into you.” 

It feels a little cheap, to even bring it up. 

Something twists in his stomach as the words leave him. 

He expects Isak to scoff, to roll his eyes at him, but Isak just squirms, shoving even more popcorn into his mouth. He fiddles with the remote control, eyes trained on the tv as episode five loads, percentage counting upwards. 

“It’s not like I have time to date anyone right now,” he mumbles, finally, when the question has all but died between them. “With... school, and everything.” 

The guilt and gratitude coils in Even’s gut, twisting, tightening. 

It makes sense that Isak would rather be somewhere else right now. Drinking coffee with a cute guy as passionate about running as he’s starting to be, rather than at home with Even, who hasn’t moved from his corner of the couch more than once since they got home. 

Makes sense that Isak would find him a burden, something that keeps him from spending his time as he wants.

There’s a reason that it’s become a joke among their friends – that wherever Even is, Isak is bound to be close by. And vice versa. 

He never knows how to react, when they tease them about it. 

Feels the guilt sloshing in his stomach, every time. 

The warmth, rushing through his veins. 

On the other end of the couch, Isak leans his head on his propped up hand and frowns at the TV. 

The hot coil in Even’s gut tightens. 

~*~

Mondays are the fucking worst – this Monday in particular. It's like the entire country has conspired to call in with the stupidest, most unreasonable complaints, all at once. They haven't had this many waiting calls since Even started working here, and of course every person he talks to insists on keeping him on the line for literal years. 

He already knows that his numbers for this month are shot to hell. 

The man on the other end of the line has an accent so thick that he can barely understand it – but there's no mistaking his anger. Even can almost feel his saliva through the headset, splattering over his face. 

He's gone through the same argument four times now – and received the same answer each time. Yes, Even understands that that's extremely frustrating. Unfortunately, there's nothing he can do. No, there's no one else who can, either – it isn't something the company does. No, his boss won't be able to do anything either. 

Three desks over, Eva stands up, raising her coffee mug at him in question. 

A glance at the time on his screen tells Even that their break started two minutes ago. He suppresses a sigh. 

He can't just end the call – but his break is from 9:15 to 9:30, and not a minute longer. If he misses it, he misses it. 

Fucking Mondays. 

He shrugs helplessly at Eva, getting a sympathetic head tilt in return, and prepares to give the same response a fifth time. Maybe tweaking the wording a little will help. 

~*~

It doesn't. 

When Even finally manages to convince the caller to hang up and logs out of his phone, he only has minutes left of his break. 

Barely enough time to down a coffee. 

Eva is sitting on the stiff blue couch in the break room, tapping away on her phone, drained mug on the table in front of her. She only looks up when Even flops down beside her, gliding down the couch until what he's doing can barely be called sitting. 

“Rough morning?” she asks, with a sympathetic smile but with her thumbs still hovering over her phone. 

On a day like this, break time is sacred. 

Even moans in response. 

“I'm wasting my life, apparently.”

Eva nods sagely, and returns to typing. 

“Ah yes. Aren't we all.”

Even moans again, and slides even further down. Eva giggles at him, and he wonders, again, how she manages to not let it get to her. 

He wishes he could be more like her. Not let it phase him so much, what the people at the other end of the line think of him. 

Focus on doing a good job here, instead of thinking of what he could be doing instead. In another life. 

Eva puts her phone down, turning slightly so that she’s facing him. Even leans his cheek on the backrest and pouts at her. 

“You know it isn't true,” she says, emphatically. “They don't know what they're talking about. They don't know you.” 

He tries to take it in. Tries to feel that she’s telling the truth. 

“Did you have a good weekend?” she asks, obviously trying to distract him, help him let go of his last caller. 

Even’s struck, again, by how lucky he is to have Eva as a co-worker. 

“Yeah,” he replies. “It was fine. Isak dragged me to this parkrun thing on Saturday.” 

Just mentioning Isak makes Eva grin wickedly. He really should have seen it coming. 

“Oh, how _is_ your husband?” 

It's an old joke, by now, one that she started even before Isak and him moved in together – and she seems to have no plans to abandon it. 

He's just grateful that it hasn't spread to the rest of their friends. 

“Still just friends,” he says. 

Eva sighs and pouts in mock resignation.

“I don't know why you keep denying it. It's obvious that there's something between you two.”

Even just laughs at her performance.

“Sorry to disappoint.” 

Eva leans back on the couch, resting her cheek on the backrest as well. 

“But you’d be so _good_ together.” 

Even shrugs. It’s _Isak_. The entire concept of them dating is just _weird_.

Eva regards him for a couple of seconds. 

“So if not Isak, what are you looking for?” Her voice has gone softer, and Even can’t help but be a little touched by her interest. For all their connections – through Isak, through Sana, through work – they’re not especially close. 

“I don't know,” he answers, honestly, because over the course of his Tinder dating that’s the one thing he’s come to realise. “Someone kind… and funny. And smart, I guess? You kind of want to be blown away by the person you're with, you know? Like, you want to feel like they're really a catch, like you can't really believe that they'd choose you, out of all people. But not so much that it makes you insecure, I guess.” He pauses a little, just to gather his thoughts. “… and someone supportive. Someone who's just there for you, when everything's shit, without needing to actually fix everything all the time.”

Eva smiles a little wistfully at him when he’s done. He thinks she’s about to say something, but just as she opens her mouth, her phone beeps, signalling the end of their break. 

On his way back to his desk, Even fishes out his own phone. 

There's an unread message from Isak, a meme, sent a few hours ago when he was probably on his way to class. 

It isn't funny, but it still makes Even smile. 

_Mondays suck_ , he types, walking back to his desk. 

Isak's response is almost immediate. 

_That they do._

And then, seconds later:

_Any reason in particular?_

Even pulls out his chair and drapes on his headphones with one hand, eyes stuck on Isak's message. 

No, not really – just the general meaninglessness of life, and of his life in particular. 

_Rude caller,_ he types, pressing send just as the first call comes through his line. 

When he checks his phone again, three calls later, Isak has sent a string of middle finger emojis. 

Maybe it shouldn’t make him smile as much as it does. 

~*~

Even's shoulders are up by his ears by the time he finally gets to leave work, almost fifteen minutes later than scheduled. He leans against the tram pole, letting the familiar rhythm of it lull him into a half sleep. 

All he wants to do is go home, heat up a pizza, and curl up in a ball in front of the TV. Scroll through the internet for a few hours until it's time for bed. 

Be silent. 

The stairs up to their apartment feel insurmountable. He almost cries when it takes him a few minutes to find his keys. 

All he wants to do is sleep. 

When he finally manages to unlock the door and stumbles into the apartment, the first thought that hits him is that something is wrong. 

Or, not wrong, exactly, but… off. 

There's a fizzing sound, and a smell that's not usually there, and… 

It takes him a moment, and then he realizes: someone's cooking. 

The smell of onions sautéing fills the air. Beneath the sizzling he can hear the soft voice of a radio host, and then the first notes of an immediately familiar pop song, one he knows but could never place. 

And over that: Isak humming. 

He does it so rarely that it still catches Even off guard, every time. 

Catches him off guard, and calms him down. 

Every time. 

But then again, being with Isak always calms him down. 

It's one of the things that has surprised Even the most, since living with him. How easy it is to just… be with Isak. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, Isak with his nose in a textbook or laptop propped up against his thighs, and Even on his phone. Some shitty reality show playing on the TV in the background. 

He can feel the tension leave his shoulders on an exhale. The pulse behind his eyes softens. The smell reminds him of his parents’ kitchen. His and Isak's so rarely smells of anything but grease and salt. 

Isak is hunched over a cutting board when Even enters, back towards the doorway. He's wearing that old grey t-shirt that he pulls on sometimes after working out, the neckline wide and stretched wider with wear. His hair is wet from the shower, dark and curling at the nape. 

Even can follow the line of his spine, disappearing into his shirt. His neck, sloping into shoulder. 

He borrowed that shirt, once. It was soft with a million washes, and smelled of Isak. 

The memory ignites something in his stomach, a soft glow, deep down in his gut.

He leans against the doorway, just for a minute. Watches Isak meticulously halve, then quarter, a mountain of potatoes. Careful, exacting. Spread them out on a baking sheet. 

Even can't help but snort when he pours olive oil in a measuring spoon. 

Only Isak. 

Isak, who looks up when he hears Even behind him, and says, 

“Hey.” 

There's an edge to it, a forced casualness in the way he says it, that's not usually there. 

It's barely noticeable. Maybe no one but Even would.

“Hey,” Even replies, and then he just has to ask, because it's so unheard of that it would be weird not to: “You're cooking?”

Isak grimaces, makes a face that supposed to hide more than it reveals, and Even can identify pride in there, but also something else. 

“Yeah…” Isak sounds a little hesitant, first, before it all comes out in a rush, words tripping over each other as they hurry to come first: “You were having a shitty day, so…”

The warmth in Even's gut blooms. He feels it spread over his face in a smile. 

Isak smiles back. 

“Do you want any help, or…?” 

Isak rejects his offer with a shake of his head. 

“It’s fine. I’ve got it. I’ll tell you when it’s done if you want to go and lie down on the couch or something.” 

Even nods, turning the words over in his sluggish mind. Laying down would be nice. He can feel the tension in his shoulders spreading to his temples, an ache starting up in his lower back. 

But at the same time – he doesn’t feel like leaving. 

In the end, he pulls out a chair and settles down at the kitchen table, resting arms and head on top of it. Isak raises his eyebrows at him, but doesn’t comment. Just goes back to pushing the onions around in the pan. Slides the baking sheet, filled with potatoes, into the oven. 

A new song starts on the radio. 

Isak hums along. 

Even feels like he could fall asleep right here. In the warmth spreading from the oven, the sounds of cooking and radio and Isak. 

His mind is already drifting in and out of consciousness, and he can feel Isak’s fingers carding through his hair, soft voice telling him that the food’s ready. 

When he startles awake, Isak is still at the stove. The same song is still pouring out of the radio. 

Even shakes his head a little, trying to rid himself of the lingering sensation of Isak’s fingers against his scalp. 

Where did that even come from? 

By the counter, Isak does a little shimmy as the song on the radio picks up. Even can’t help but smile. 

Maybe he should feel guilty about making Isak cook for him, but right now, he’s just too exhausted. 

He trusts that he’ll feel guilty enough afterwards, anyway. 

Isak bends down to check on the potatoes in the oven. When he crouches, his shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of smooth skin just above his low-slung sweatpants, curving into his ass. 

There’s something about the entire scene unfolding around him that just makes Even feel safe. At home, in a way that he never thought he would when he moved in with Isak instead of Sonja. 

In a way that he can’t imagine feeling with anyone else. 

The warmth in his gut spreads through his veins, filling him up. He lays his head back down on his arms, and feels his mind start to drift again. 

He wishes they could just stay here, in this moment, forever. Him and Isak. In their kitchen bubble, filled with warmth and food and home. 

He wishes he could go up to Isak, wrap his arms around him from behind, and bury his face in the crook of his neck. Breathe in the smell of him. Feel his curls against his cheek. 

He wishes Isak would turn around in his arms, run his fingers through his hair, take his face between his hands, and kiss him. His forehead against his own. His breath against his lips. A hint of stubble against his jawline. 

The realization shocks him wide awake. 

Oh fuck. 

He’s in love with Isak. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sees the muscles in Isak’s back move under the fabric, his shoulders pulled back, posture proud. 
> 
> Isak turns to him and smiles. 
> 
> “Don’t forget to breathe!” 
> 
> Even tries to breathe. Like he’s been trying to breathe all week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, first and foremost - I'm absolutely amazed at the response I've gotten to this. Thank you all so much, you're really all so amazingly sweet. And I'm _especially_ grateful to Maugurt, who betaed this chapter, and who is an angel and a superhero.
> 
> Come talk to me on [tumblr!](https://champagneleftie.tumblr.com/)

When Even enters the kitchen on Saturday morning, there’s a shirt hanging over the back of his chair. 

Isak’s breakfast dishes are already in the sink, his cornflakes left out on the table, and his blue, long sleeve running shirt is neatly folded and hung over the back of Even’s chair.

The sight of it makes Even’s heart thud, hard, against his chest. 

Even knows Isak’s workout wardrobe. It’s not that he’s consciously memorized it or anything, but he’s had a front row seat to its expansion over the past couple of months. The black and silver sneakers that appeared one day on their shoe rack, the bag from the fancy running store lining their garbage bin. The tights, accompanied by intricate explanations of wind resistance and the benefit of proper gear. Special socks.

Special shirts. 

Even knows that this is one of the three long sleeve running shirts that Isak owns, in blue, black, and grey. 

He knows the last time Isak wore this one – last Thursday, when they went for a run after Even came home from work. One last run before their first park run. 

He knows that it’s Isak’s favorite. That the grey shirt chafes a little at the neck. That the black has a tendency to ride up in the back. 

Through the wall, he hears the shower turn off, and then, after a few minutes, the door being unlocked, opened, and shut, and that, the thought of Isak entering the kitchen, finding him staring at his shirt like an idiot, propels Even into motion.

There’s coffee in the coffee maker, and he crosses the kitchen to get to it, to hopefully force his brain to actually wake up. When he passes behind his chair, he can’t help but run his fingers over the shirt. The fabric is smooth, almost slippery. 

He downs his first mug of tepid coffee in one go, leaning against the counter, and is halfway through sipping on his second, finally reaching that stage of mental clarity where he can start thinking of fixing himself breakfast, when Isak enters the kitchen. He’s in all black – black shirt, black shorts, black tights with a reflective stripe running the entire length of his leg – and Even’s immediate thought is that he should be in an ad campaign. Then he dismisses the idea, because fuck, that’s corny, even for him. 

Then Isak runs a hand through his hair, shaking his curls out, and Even almost chokes on his coffee. 

He barely manages to disguise it behind a yawn. 

Isak smirks at him. 

“How can you be tired?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at Even. “You basically fell asleep as soon as you came home last night.” 

He crosses the kitchen and stands next to him, reaching behind Even to get his water bottle from the dish rack. 

Even knows that he’s imagining it, knows that he can’t _actually_ feel the warmth of Isak’s skin through his sleeve, through his own t-shirt, against his back – but fuck, if it doesn’t feel like he can. Like Isak’s hand could brush against the small of his back at any moment, gently move him aside like the most natural thing in the world, stand close enough to him that the fabric of their shirts would brush together, every time either of them shifts. 

But they don’t. They stand far enough apart that Isak can reach for his bottle, turn the faucet on and fill it up, without ever touching him. Close enough that Even holds his breath, convinced that his heart is loud enough to be heard if he doesn’t. 

Isak gulps some water down before capping the bottle, twisting an extra time to make sure it won’t leak. He turns, leans against the counter, next to Even. 

Their elbows are maybe a decimeter apart. Even resists the urge to memorize their exact positions, to measure later. 

“I thought you maybe wanted to borrow it,” Isak says, nodding at the shirt. “Since you were so cold last time.” 

Even tries to swallow his heart back down into his chest.

“Thanks,” he croaks. “Uhm, I’m – yeah. Thanks.” 

Fuck. This is ridiculous. It’s Isak. 

He takes a swig of his coffee, trying to clear his throat. It’s Isak. He can’t be tongue tied around _Isak_. 

Isak, who looks up at him, a concerned frown between his eyes. 

“Are you getting sick or something? You know, you shouldn’t run if you have an infection.” 

Even nods, and swallows some more coffee. It’s almost cold by now. 

“Yeah, I’m fine, just – haven’t really woken up yet.” Isak doesn’t look convinced, and Even can’t exactly blame him. Of the two of them, he’s usually the one who bounces out of bed, wide awake at the first note of his alarm. Isak is the one who doesn’t start functioning until an hour and a bucket of coffee later. “I – I think I’m going to try to pace myself better this time,” he chances, hoping that the subject change will be distracting enough. 

The crease in Isak’s brow smooths out, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

“Okay,” he says, and Even can hear that he’s pleased about it, about Even taking their running a bit more seriously, finally, maybe. Or that they won’t have to stay home. “I’ll pace you.” 

Even’s heart thuds against his chest again. 

~*~

They arrive just as the organizer is finishing up her instructions – reminding them to keep out of the way, how to go about getting their results after the run. There are fewer runners gathered around her this week – the sky is overcast, and the temperatures, which were heading into premature summer, dipped again on Thursday, so Even guesses that that’s why. 

Shorts guy is back as well, his shorts even shorter but without the single-minded focus on his warm up that he had last week. He keeps looking around him, keeps wobbling in his stretches as he cranes his neck to look past the crowd. When he catches sight of them arriving, his entire face breaks into smile, and he straightens immediately, giving Isak a slightly too enthusiastic wave. 

His friend gives his arm a little shove, and Even can hear him in his head, telling shorts guy to at least play it a _little_ cool. 

Even can’t help but wonder what it would be like. To meet Isak in a setting, at a point in his life where he could be so transparent about his interest, so obvious in his intentions. 

Beside him, Isak’s brow furrows in confusion for a second before he gives a nod and lifts a half-hearted hand to the guy. 

Even doesn’t quite manage to slam the brakes on his brain before it starts celebrating. 

~*~

He runs close enough to Isak that he can see the blond fuzz on his neck, the faint shift in skin tone that appears when his shirt moves, where his neck becomes his back, already deepening despite it still being only spring. Close enough to see the strip of pale skin when his shirts climbs up over his hips, before Isak pushes it down again. 

He sees the muscles in Isak’s back move under the fabric, his shoulders pulled back, posture proud.  

Isak turns to him and smiles. 

“Don’t forget to breathe!” 

Even tries to breathe, like he’s been trying to breathe all week. 

In through the nose, out through the mouth. 

Isak slows down a bit in front of him, letting Even catch up to him, matches the rhythm of his steps, left, right, left, beat for beat. Even’s breath is thickening now. With every exhale, it’s getting more and more difficult not to pant. He can feel his cheeks growing warmer and warmer. 

Isak slows down a little bit more. 

“I think we’re running too fast,” he says. “Remember that article? It said that most people run too fast, that you’re supposed to keep a pace where you can hold a conversation.” 

His voice is easy, relaxed, nothing that even hints at him struggling. 

Even's heart thuds even harder in his chest. 

_We_. 

Beside him, Isak smiles at the ground, runs a hand through his hair, over his neck, tinted pink.  

~*~

Somewhere underneath Isak's laptop, textbooks, and printed out articles, is their coffee table. Even's pretty sure of it, even if he can't actually see it at the moment. 

Isak sits cross-legged on the couch, one textbook to his right and another to his left. The notebook on his lap is covered in chicken scratches, pointing in all directions, like he's started to cover his original notes with even more notes. 

He's pretty sure that Isak hasn't changed positions all afternoon. His own neck hurts just from looking at him. 

It's how they usually end up on Sunday afternoons: Isak, covered in books, hair in all directions after running his hand through it too many times, and Even, keeping him company on the other end of the couch, a movie on his laptop or an article on his phone, or just fucking around on the internet. But as they get closer and closer to the end of the semester, the books and papers and stress fumes billowing around Isak only seem to multiply. The Sunday afternoon study sessions only seem to grow longer. 

He moves his feet from the couch just in time to avoid Isak dropping a textbook that could double as a mallet on them. At his yelp, Isak finally startles up from his notes. 

“Oh fuck, sorry!”

Even shrugs. 

“I'm fine, you missed me,” he jokes weakly, hoping that too much of his concern doesn't seep through. 

Neither of them likes it when people are too _concerned_. 

Isak groans. 

“This is just so fucking impossible. And the teacher's an idiot, he can't explain anything for shit…”

Even nods. He's heard it before. More or less every Sunday, in fact, since the semester started and Isak realised that he was in the seminar group of The Idiot. 

He just wishes there was something he could do. 

Not that Isak isn't managing. He's managing much better than Even ever would, he knows that. Even would never read ahead like Isak does, prepare like Isak does, go the extra mile like Isak always does. If it were Even, he'd probably just accept his fate and blame the inevitably disappointing exam score on his teacher. 

But not Isak. 

Maybe he's not exactly in a position to be proud of him. He's not his parent, or his family member, or… or whatever. But he can't help it. 

Isak sighs again and starts flipping through the textbook that just threatened the existence of Even's feet. He has to lean in towards Even to do it, lean over the book next to him. He is close enough that Even can follow the paths of his curls over his head, twisting and turning into patterns, swirls, waves. 

He wants to know what they feel like between his fingers, what it would be like to run a hand through them, push them away from Isak's face. Have Isak glance up at him, smile at him. 

Isak glances up at him and smiles. 

Even feels warmth spread up the back of his neck, over his cheeks, feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. 

Isak’s tongue darts across his lips. 

Even feels himself mirror it. 

If Isak holds his gaze now, Even might lean in, cross the mound of books between them, steady himself with a hand on Isak's notebook, and kiss him. 

Lean his forehead against Isak's. Push a curl behind his ear. Run his thumb down the line of Isak's cheekbone. 

Isak looks down.  

The disappointment wells up in his chest, erupting slowly, like opening a soda that's been violently shook. It runs through his veins, filling him up, from his toes, through his calves, his knees. 

Not that he has anything to be disappointed about, really. 

When it reaches his stomach, starts filling it with bubbling black sludge, he forces himself to get up, to get off the couch. Distract himself. 

“I'm going to make some tea, do you want some too?” His voice feels strangled, like it has to pass through a sieve to get out. 

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.” Nothing in Isak’s voice reveals if he’s noticed Even’s torment. 

Even escapes to the kitchen. 

As the kettle boils, he tries to breathe. 

He needs to get his shit together. 

It's not what he's best at. Actually, he's not very good at it at all. Isak is, Isak is the one with ambition and structure and _goals_ , dreams that are attainable and that he actually works to achieve. 

Even has a heart and a mind that never really move at the same pace – one of them always slightly ahead of the other. And now his heart has run away with him again. Has him seeing futures and alternate universes that probably have zero connection to reality, to what's actually happening around him. 

He needs to stop imagining things, needs to stop seeing things that aren't there. 

So he's in love with Isak. That doesn't mean that Isak feels anything for him. 

He reaches above his head to get the tea and the honey from the top shelf, drops a generous gob in Isak's mug and tops it off with milk, leaves his own tea black and gets out a half-full packet of cookies too while he's at it. 

It's a bit of a challenge to balance it all, but he manages to make it back to the living room without any accidents. 

Isak shuffles some books out of the way to make room on the coffee table and takes the cookies and his tea from Even. He takes a sip, licking the traces of sweet milky tea from his lips before putting it down again, grabbing a cookie and returning to his book. 

On the other edge of the couch, Even folds his legs together as best as he can, tucking his feet under him, tries to make himself as small as possible, tries to avoid being in the way. 

His mug is warm between his hands. 

Isak frowns at the book in his lap. Cookie crumbs drop from his mouth, slide down the page, and settle between the couch cushions. He runs his pen along the lines of texts, covers the previous paragraph with a hand and stares at nothing, muttering silently as he reads it back to himself. 

Even’s tea is sharp against his tongue, bitter from steeping too long. Isak’s curls bounce above the rim of his mug when he runs his hand through his hair. 

Isak’s tea cools on the table. 

~*~

Even hates the gym. 

He never used to go to it, even in high school, when the others started being obsessed with their biceps and trying to achieve washboard abs. Yousef and Elias would go straight there after school, spend hours lifting weights – and Even and Mikael would watch movies, or make them, or get high. Or he’d hang out with Sonja, spend long afternoons in her bed, on the floor of her room, balancing a laptop between them. 

The gym was never his thing. 

It isn’t his thing now either, exactly. It smells weird, a combination of sweat and dust and dampness that never seems to disappear, that sticks to all the machines, even to the floor. Despite the notes covering the walls, black bold block letters staring down on them wherever they look, he’s never actually seen anyone wipe the machines down. 

Even goes to the gym for Isak. 

He’s told himself that it’s to see his friends, now that they’re no longer in school, when they all have different schedules and obligations, when they have to actually _make an effort_. But it’s been like that for years now, before he and Isak started running together. Before Isak started to care about this stuff, too. 

He might as well admit it, at least to himself, now. 

He’s a bit late – a late caller, a canceled tram – and when he arrives, everyone is already there.

The gym has its own sound, too. The clatter of barbells being pushed back into the rack. The whirr of the treadmills. The grunts the guys make when pushing themselves to max. 

When he pushes the door open, careful not to trip over the unusually high step, wise from past experience, he hears Isak. 

He wonders how long he’s been listening to Isak, without realising it, if he recognizes his wordless groan over the dim of the weight room. He rounds the corner on his way to the changing room.

And fuck. 

Isak is in the middle of the room, splayed out on the bench pressing bench, pushing the barbell away from his chest. His jaw is clenched, a line so sharp that Even thinks he could cut himself on it. A curl falls onto his frowning brow. 

His shirt rides up, revealing his pale abs. From where Even is standing, they look rock hard, skin straining and stretching over the taut muscles underneath. He wishes that he could run his fingers over it, feel if it feels as hard – as smooth – as it looks, that he could follow the trail of blond, sparse hairs that he can’t actually see from here but knows line Isak’s stomach down from his belly button, down into his shorts. Hook his thumbs under the elastic, pull them down Isak’s thighs, all the way down his legs…

He has to move his heavy gym bag, strap cutting into his shoulder, to hide the fact that all his blood seems to be rushing to his dick. 

Isak pushes the barbell into the air, mouth dropping open and eyes falling shut as he straightens his arms, steadies his hold, relaxes in the weight of it before, finally, pushing it back into the rack where Yousef, spotting him, catches and racks it. 

Even’s cheeks burn. 

Isak sits up on the bench, swings a leg over it and runs both hands over his face, through his hair. His mouth is still open, tongue peeking out as he pants through the effort. 

Even’s own tongue suddenly feels very foreign in his mouth. 

Isak looks up and meets his eyes, and his face changes. A smile spreads over it, lights it up. His cheeks are red, brow sweaty, eyes sparkling and Even thinks that he’s never more beautiful than when he is like this. 

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to handle it. 

Isak stands up when he approaches them, grabs his water bottle and pour some down his throat. His cheeks hollow as he sucks on the stopper cork, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. 

Even can’t help but lick his lips at the sight of it. 

Isak smiles happily at him. 

“I thought you might not make it!”

Even grips his bag, shifts it on his shoulder, tries to collect himself. 

“Yeah… busy day.”

Isak nods sympathetically, tilting his head a little to the side. His gaze has Even trapped, like his eyes are magnets that Even can’t pull away from, and he’s very aware of the fact that he hasn’t even said a proper hello to Yousef. But still, when Isak’s looking at him like that… 

He’s pulled out of it, at last, by Elias and Mikael suddenly appearing next to him, Elias slapping his shoulder in greeting. After exchanging hellos, hugs and pats on the back, he finally manages to excuse himself to the changing rooms. 

He sits on the bench running between the rows of lockers and tries to breathe. 

This isn’t working. He can’t even be around Isak without losing it, and if he can't be around Isak…

There’s nothing he wants more than being around Isak. 

He just needs to get it together. Get himself together. 

He pulls at his laces, makes sure they’re tight, grabs his water bottle, and goes back out to the gym. 

Isak is already on one of the two treadmills when he comes out, jogging slowly. His cheeks are still pink, eyes still glossy, but he seems to at least have gotten his breathing under control. 

Even can’t say the same for himself. 

Isak beams at him, and Even tries to focus on the buttons on the machine, on finding the right speed, the right incline. On anything besides the outline of Isak’s chest in his tight t-shirt, the way his shorts hang low on his hips. How flushed the back of his neck is. 

“So, do you want to do some intervals?” Isak asks, and Even really, _really_ doesn’t want to do intervals, but at the same time, intervals are horrible enough that he won’t be able to think about anything else while they run them – so he nods. 

“Okay, so, if we warm up for five minutes?” Isak continues, upping the speed on his machine. Even mirrors him, his pace trailing behind Isak’s. “And then we can do like a stair?” 

Even just nods in response. He has no idea what Isak is talking about, rarely does when they’re talking about running – he just does what Isak does. 

Just tries to keep up. 

When they’d started running together, he hadn’t exactly imagined this. 

It had been his therapist’s idea, originally. He had just been so sick of… everything. The pills. The routine. That he couldn’t just live life like he wanted to anymore. That he had to make sacrifices. Change. 

It had been one of those days – weeks, months – when he couldn’t stop thinking about it: how he’d never again be just Even, how he’d always be Even with a qualifier. Sick Even. Bipolar Even. 

Crazy Even. 

The running had been a compromise. Another crack in the person he used to be, who he wants to be. 

At least lots of guys exercise. Normal guys. At least no one thinks anything of it. 

Even if it's not _him_. 

But he could never have done it without Isak. Without Isak pushing him out the door, keeping track of him. Keeping him company. And so if Isak wants to suddenly be a runner, read up on injuries and training plans, the right amount of protein and the optimal stretching routines, then, well. 

Even could never have done this without him. It’s only fair, then, that he does this for Isak. 

He grits his teeth together, pushes the little arrow button indicating speed, watches the number rise. He already feels out of breath.

“Okay,” Isak says next to him, voice steady as ever. “One minute, then we rest.”

Even starts counting down. 

~*~

Even has no new messages. Hasn't had any new messages all afternoon – as always on Thursdays, when Isak has his afternoon seminar with the Idiot. 

He still keeps checking his phone. 

It helps that he has the recipe on there – gives him an excuse to keep unlocking it, punch in the passcode, just to check. 

He tries not to remind himself that he doesn’t need a recipe. He’s not really following it anyway. 

He presses some more lime over the sauce and checks, again, that he’s turned down the heat on the rice, gets out a fourth spoon to taste the spiciness before dropping it in the sink with the others, adds a little extra curry paste. Isak doesn’t like too much spice, but it needs just a little bit more. 

Not that Isak expects him to cook or anything.They usually just make their own dinner, pizza or just a sandwich or pasta with ketchup or whatever… but Isak is always so tired and frustrated on Thursdays, and he’s trying to eat better since he’s working out…

And there’s no way to use half a can of coconut milk, anyway, so they might as well share. 

He hears Isak’s key turn in the lock, hears him kick his shoes off and drop his heavy bag on the floor. Hears him drag his feet through the apartment, towards the kitchen. 

“Hey.” 

When he looks up, Isak is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. 

It pushes his biceps out, makes them strain against the short sleeves of his t-shirt. 

It’s not the first time this week that Even’s noticed. 

“This smells really good.”

“I think there’s enough for you too, if you want it,” Even says, trying to sound casual, trying to sound as if that wasn’t his plan all along. 

Isak lights up. 

“Really?” 

Even nods, and he can almost see Isak’s shoulders drop from up by his ears. He shuffles over to the table and slumps down in the chair, resting his face in his hands. 

Even wishes he could go to him. Hug him, run a hand over his neck, his back. Place a kiss on his temple, distract him for a bit while they wait for dinner to be ready. 

“Bad day?” he asks instead, although he already knows it has been. 

Isak groans. 

“Even worse than usual. They’re fucking idiots, Even. It’s like… they ask things that they should have learned our _first semester_. No, not even our first semester, in _high school._ ” 

Even hums, stirs the sauce. 

Isak groans, again, and drops his head down on the table. 

“I can’t wait for this year to be over.” 

Something twinges in Even at that, the strike of a chord that he can't identify, can't place. Like spots in the corner of his eye that disappear when he tries to focus on them, but he still tries, tries to find the spot in his chest where it stings – 

Before he can, his phone rings. 

They both look up, because that never happens. His phone is always on silent, to the chagrin of his parents, especially, because he never picks up the first time they call. 

Even though he knows it worries them. Even though it annoys him that they worry. 

It never happens, so it takes him a moment to remember – that he set an alarm, so that he wouldn't forget his laundry, _again_ , only to remember it when he's going to bed and the laundry room is locked and it's been pulled out of the machine and dumped in the wire cart by some angry neighbor. 

He would have done it at some other time, if he hadn't just realized this morning that he's out of underwear – the elastic of the boxers he's wearing is just an illusion by now – and this was the only time left. He starts turning down the temperature of the stove and pulling the pots off the heat, almost tipping the rice all over the floor in the process, when Isak puts a hand on his arm. 

He hadn't even noticed him getting up from the table. 

“Hey,” he says, grabbing Even's keys off the kitchen counter. “I've got it, okay? I'll just put it in the dryer, it's no stress.” He grins, cocks an eyebrow at Even. “Besides, you don't want to leave me alone with your dinner, do you?” And Even doesn't even have time to reply before the front door slams behind Isak. He's still holding the spatula. The apartment echoes with the silence of Isak leaving. 

And it hits him. 

This is pretty much exactly what he was picturing when they got the apartment. 

Not for him and Isak, but for him and Sonja.

One of them cooking while the other one gets the laundry. 

Nights on the couch in homey silence. 

And just like with Sonja, there's just something missing. Just like with Sonja, it's just out of his reach. 

At least this time, he knows what it is. 

 


End file.
